Nine

Arn pulled off I-80 and into the Archer Complex where the fairgrounds were now located. When he’d competed at the rodeo as a boy, he’d been able to walk the couple miles to the fairgrounds in Frontier Park, in town. Now with the Archer Complex up and running ten miles east, there was more room for special classes. Like the handler-herding dog class being put on by Bonnie and Beverly Johns.

He walked through the arena doors and stood to one side of the bleachers. The class of nine sat with their dogs, a mix of Australian shepherds and Border collies and one Belgian Malinois. Arn stood beside the bleachers packed with people who’d come to watch the class unfold.

A man not quite as tall as Arn but rangy like the Marlboro Man, with blond hair that flowed past his collar, stood from the bleachers. He talked briefly with the class before sending his Border collie out onto the floor. The dog moved toward four ewes at the far side of the arena. She carried her head low, her hindquarters high. The dog’s tail was tucked between her legs as she stared intently at the sheep, intimidating them. She barked softly and began herding the sheep through orange pylons before pushing them around the arena—
gently, so as not to frighten them—and over a makeshift ramp into a holding pen. When a heavyset man in bib overalls shut the gate, the dog ran to the blond man and sat quietly at his feet. He reached into his vest pocket and gave the dog a bone.

“You don’t need to give the dog a treat when she’s finished,” he told the class. “The dog gets pleasure from doing the one thing it loves—herding livestock. And when you’re done, your dogs will each be able to do what Britches just did.”

A man sitting with the other spectators raised his hand and stood. He was as raw-boned as any Wyoming rancher Arn had met. Forty or so, average in stature, yet with power in the way he held on to the bleacher railing. “They say you’re some kind of authority on herding dogs.”

The man with the Border collie looked at the woman conducting the class, and she cleared her throat. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, though it was sometimes difficult to age ranch women with the hard life they led. She introduced herself as Beverly Johns and faced the man. “You must be new to these parts.”

The man took off his hat. His hair was clipped short and he wore a silk bandana around his neck. Sweat dripped down his face, and he wiped it away with another bandana he’d produced from a back pocket. He gestured with holey work gloves that had seen better days. “I’ve been working for the Potts for a couple years now. Scott Wallace, ma’am.”

“The veterinarian,” a woman at the far end of the bleachers said.

“You’re a vet?” Beverly asked.

Scott smiled. “I’m not a real vet. I just picked up doctorin’ critters from working with them over the years. It comes in handy now and again when critters take ill. My day job it to shear those miserable beasts.” He nodded to the sheep. “Though I’m more inclined to work cows if I got a choice.”

Beverly motioned to the blond man with the Border collie sitting beside him. “In answer to your question, Eddie Glass is the recognized expert in training and raising herding dogs. He’s won the Meeker Classic in Colorado twice—no small feat for all the dogs and handlers that compete, and more regional competitions than you’ll ever attend. And his dogs have been sold in six countries. We’re fortunate he dropped in for a minute.” She smiled warmly at Eddie. “It was a pleasant surprise, though he does this often.”

Scott held up his hand. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Eddie said. “But you should have done your homework more carefully, Mr. Wallace.” He faced the class. “I won’t be teaching today. Prior commitments take me out of town. Bev and her sister Bonnie—whenever she recuperates—will be teaching you.” He smirked at the portly man in the bib overalls. “With Don Whales assisting.”

Don waved at the class as he let the sheep out of the pen.

“Now you folks take a fifteen minute break,” Beverly said. “When you return, we’ll start your dogs singling. By the end of the day, he—or she—will be able to single out a particular sheep from the rest of the flock.”

Arn made his way toward Eddie Glass, but students circled him asking for autographs. “You going to get his autograph?” Arn asked Scott Wallace.

“Don’t believe I will.” Scott took out a tin of Altoids and offered Arn one of the breath mints, but he waved it away. “It shames me enough not knowing that he is the authority on herding dogs.”

Arn slapped Scott on the back. “Don’t feel bad,” he whispered. “I didn’t know either.”

“You just moved here too?”

Arn shook his head and waited for the class to finish crowding Eddie. “I lived in Denver the last thirty years, but just moved back to Cheyenne last year.” He leaned against the bleachers and used a piece of stiff straw to pry fresh sheep shit off his boots.

“It’s a losing proposition,” Scott said, motioning to his own boots. “Best thing you can do is get used to the aroma.” He exaggerated drawing in air.

“So, you work for the Circle Trot?”

“Just a ranch hand,” Scott said, stroking the muzzle of a dog sitting beside one of the students in front of the bleachers.

“I hired out to the Potts one summer when I was a kid,” Arn said. “How’re Hubert and Henrietta doing?”

Scott laughed. “Feisty. I hope I’m that active when I’m eighty.”

“Still working their tails off. Amazing. And did I hear you right you make money on the side shearing sheep?” Arn was killing time until the people around Eddie dispersed.

“I do all right picking up money hereabouts during shearing season. But now things are a little slow at the ranch, so I came into town to pick up cake at the feed store. I heard they started a dog class, and didn’t figure it’d hurt none watching for a bit.” He snapped his fingers. “Now I recognize you. You’re the one—”

“That the TV station hired to work Jillie Reilly’s murder.”

Scott shrugged. “Don’t know anything about that. I was going to say, you’re the feller the Association hired to catch that Midnight Sheepherder. Hubert mentioned you. Any luck finding him?”

“Not yet,” Arn answered. “But the law of averages—”

“Understood.”

Arn saw an opening. He started toward Eddie, but a young woman in tight Wranglers and a low-cut top approached him before Arn could. She lowered her voice, and the two laughed about some private joke.

Beverly approached them. “If you want to talk with him you might have a long wait,” she said. “As you can see, he’s sort of a rock star in the agility dog world.”

“A regular Elvis,” Arn answered.

“Or a Fabio,” Scott said and tipped his hat. “Got to get to the feed store.”

Beverly sat next to Arn on the bleachers as he waited for the woman to leave Eddie alone. “I recognize you from the TV.” She looked him over. “But you look a little—”

“Older and larger in person?”

“Exactly.”

“Old photo they’re using.”

Beverly motioned to Eddie. “This is about Jillie, isn’t it?”

Arn nodded. “Among other things. Did you know her?”

“Vaguely. I’d run into her now and again at the fair. Or while she was sniffing around Eddie. My sister knew her quite well at one time. Competed in barrel racing together, went to the movies and hung out. But they had a falling out right out of high school over a man and haven’t really spoken since.” Beverly looked away. “Seems like all the local meat hangs out in the same bars trying to pick up their one-night stands.”

Arn grabbed his pocket notebook and flipped to a blank page. “I understand your sister and Jillie got into a fight at the Boot Hill this last Saturday night.”

Beverly took out a can of Copenhagen and stuffed her lip before putting it back in her pocket. “Bonnie never said squat about it. When Eddie came to the morning class and told me what happened, he was pretty upset. He’d danced with Jillie Saturday, and now she’s dead. He said that except for some guy she knew at the bar she was hitting on, he was about the last person to see her alive.” She nodded toward Eddie. “That’s all he knows. But you mentioned you’re here for other things.”

Arn tapped the pocket notebook with his pen. “The Wool Growers Association hired me to catch the Midnight Sheepherder.”

“And you think you might find the culprit here?” Beverly motioned to the students.

“That would be the most efficient way to steal sheep—using a trained dog. Like Eddie’s. Or, I would wager, most dogs here.”

Bev pointed to two dogs held by women huddled at the far end of the bleachers comparing Eddie’s autograph. “Those two are Border collies. This is their second class and they may be capable of it. That Australian shepherd the man’s got beside him is a new student, so probably not. The rest of the class”—Beverly motioned to the Belgian Malinois and the five remaining students, all with Border collies—“are advanced students. Their dogs would be able to herd sheep into a trailer in minutes. But you’re not implying one of these folks is the rustler?”

“I’m just covering all the angles. All I’m saying is that anyone with trained dogs and a knowledge of livestock could be the Midnight Sheepherder.” Arn pointed to Don Whales’s Australian shepherd. “Like your assistant’s dog would be capable, I suspect. And your own.”

“Now see here, Mr. Anderson—”

“It’s Arn.” He laid on the charm, which, even if he tried hard, was still pretty lame. “I’m not accusing anybody. I’m just keeping an open mind.”

The woman talking with Eddie looked to be wrapping it up, and Arn saw his opening. He started toward Eddie and then turned back. “You say your sister sprained her ankle?”

Beverly nodded slowly.

“I’d like to talk with her as soon as I’m finished with Eddie.”

Beverly looked away.

“Bonnie didn’t sprain her ankle, did she?”

“You psychic?” Beverly lowered her voice and looked around at the students within earshot. “She dragged back to her house Sunday afternoon. She was still drunk enough that I threatened to haul her to the ER to get her stomach pumped. She couldn’t make the class ’cause she’s still hung over.” Beverly looked around again. “Bonnie’s got a drinking problem.”

“You mean a stopping problem.”

“That, too. When I left her on the couch, she’d just finished off her second can of tomato juice and Tabasco sauce.”

“Family recipe?”

“Not really, but she doesn’t know that. I figure if she’s forced to drink something nasty like that, it might make her think twice about getting knee-walking drunk again.”

The woman who’d been talking to Eddie walked away, looking over her shoulder, smiling seductively. Eddie smiled back until he noticed Arn standing in front of him. He held out his hand. “What you need signed, old timer?”

Arn bristled. At not quite sixty, he resented this salutation. Even his granddad at ninety-two had fought any man who called him that. He felt like taking Eddie out back and showing him what an old timer could do, like he’d wanted to when Flo’s bartender Karl called him that. At least he thought he could take Eddie, although he wasn’t so sure about Karl—it’s hard to beat a dwarf-tossing champion. But Arn held his pride and handed Eddie a business card.

“Arn Anderson Investigations. This supposed to mean something?”

“I’ve been hired to look into Jillie Reilly’s murder.”

“I already told Sergeant Slade about Saturday night. How I danced with Jillie until she found some other dude to go home with.”

“Did you tell Slade you and Jillie were once an item?”

Eddie kept quiet.

“Did you mention it, even though you’re a married man?”

“I don’t have to listen to this bullshit.”

“Would you rather have your dirty knickers aired on Ana Maria Villarreal’s nightly special? I assume your wife watches television.”

Eddie stepped closer, his jaw muscles working overtime, his fists clenched. Arn had him by twenty pounds and a few inches, but by the looks of it, Eddie Glass would be a handful and would never back down. Normally.

“I have half-a-notion to put a boot in your ass,” Eddie snarled.

“Make sure it’s just half-a-notion,” Arn said, blading himself, preparing for Eddie to throw a punch.

Eddie’s eyes narrowed for a moment and he backed away. He must have seen something in Arn that he didn’t feel was worth tangling with. “I’ll talk with you. But God help you if my relationship with Jillie gets on TV.”

“I can’t promise anything. Ana Maria is her own woman, but I’ll ask that she not mention it if possible.” He motioned to the top of the bleachers where no one sat.

Below them, Beverly called commands and the students lined up with their dogs to begin an agility course. Arn sat down and looked at the class with interest. “Makes you want to go out and correct some bad habits, I suspect.”

Eddie nodded. “They got to develop their own style.”

“And what’s your style?” Arn asked. “Just now I got you riled up with a mere mention of your relationship with Jillie. How riled up did you get Saturday night when she started hitting on other guys?”

“You know about that?”

Arn tapped his notebook. “Lot of people saw how upset you became,” he lied.

Eddie shucked out a Camel and lit it. “So I got a few temper issues.”

“More than a few, considering you beat that husband at the Boot Hill.”

Eddie smiled as if enjoying the retelling of it. “All’s I was doing was dancing with his old lady and he got pissed. Of course, I had to defend myself.” He blew smoke rings upwards. Stalling. “You think I had something to do with Jillie’s death?”

“Did you?”

“You sound like that goofy deputy. He came right out and said as much. But I figured if he had some evidence, he’d haul me in for a formal interview. Or arrest me. He’s got nothing.”

Arn leaned closer. “Put yourself in his shoes. In my shoes. You and Jillie were an item last summer. You don’t want your wife to find out, and I’d bet Jillie and you had some agreement.”

“Jillie promised she wouldn’t say anything. And she never did.”

Arn stood from the hard bleachers and arched his back before sitting back down. “For the sake of argument, suppose you were worried she would spill the beans.” He tapped his notebook again as if it contained some secret information that would indict Eddie. “And when you ran outside, the guy Jillie followed out was gone, and she was left standing on the sidewalk. And for the sake of argument, maybe you offered her a ride home. Things got a little heated when she threatened to expose you … so you see where all this speculation could lead.”

“It wasn’t me she threatened to expose. It was the guy she chased outside. Besides, when I got out it was too late—she and this feller had already driven off. So I just went home.”

Arn let that digest. There was logic to Eddie’s argument. “Which brings up what the guy looked like, ’cause I found no one who could give a good description of him.”

“How the hell should I know,” Eddie said. “I wasn’t there to look at guys. And when she followed him out, I was just a little busy taking some fists from that woman’s old man. I have no idea what he looked like. Can’t recall ever seeing him before.”

“What if I told you there was a witness to Jillie’s murder?”

Eddie shrugged. “I’d say that’s good news. Who was the witness?”

Arn tapped his notebook again. “Just someone I need to talk with. If I can find him.”

He pocketed his notebook and started down the bleachers when Eddie stopped him. “Look, I don’t appreciate you coming in here implying I had anything to do with Jillie’s murder. Fact is, we talked recently about me leaving my wife. The last thing I’d do was want to hurt her. I loved Jillie.”

How many domestic abuse calls had Arn been on as a policeman where the husband had said the same thing: “But I love her.”